Merryll Manning Is Dead Lucky (31 page)

42

So here I am with a small but steady income, living in a big, ugly, “modern” house with million-dollar water views, but no companionship – preferably female.

    Although the final episode of
80 Questions
knocked the competition for dead, everyone has now forgotten all about it – and that was only six weeks ago.

    Would you believe, the university pulled a fast one and refused to return Dune-Harrigan’s “paperweights”? I was forced to consult my lawyer. But Willingham wouldn’t touch my grievance with a ten-foot pole: “Those items weren’t declared for probate, therefore they don’t legally exist. Even if you were now to declare them and pay the taxes and the fines, they are stolen goods. You would invite the attention not only of Customs and Border Protection, but you would also be served with a writ from the Egyptian authorities for the recovery of their property. Customs and Border Protection could even lay charges. You could wind up in jail. I’d forget all about it if I were you. I’ve already forgotten this entire conversation. Please pay $200 cash to the cashier on your way out.”

    As for my TV career, you remember I stood in as guest compere on TV’s highest rating quiz show? You’ve already forgotten! That’s the TV racket for you. The cozy viewers clamor for autographs today, throw them in the garbage tomorrow.

    I had one hope. I believed in Dune-Harrigan. Somewhere, somehow, that old pirate had stashed away an Egyptian collection of such value and variety that the fabulous contents of Tut’s tomb would look like the winner’s prize in a shooting gallery.

    Prying for secret panels and hidden closets, I searched the house from top to bottom. I lay awake nights, mentally listing the contents of every room. In summer, I made up a bed in the sunroom. Each morning, I stared across the bay to the wooded island in the inlet close by; but I tried to keep my eyes from glancing down to the rocks straight below. I’m not afraid of ghosts, but it’s foolish to tempt Fate.

    So I continued to ransack the house from top to bottom, but the only room of interest was always the basement hobby room where the good professor had fired an incredibly amateurish collection of well over a hundred lopsided pots and vases – none of which were large enough to hide anything much in the way of Ancient Egyptian relics. Mind you, they did hide an amazing collection of British sovereigns. There were hundreds of them! But they weren’t going to do me much good. Flooding the market with sovereigns would not only deflate their worth but would undoubtedly attract unwelcome attention from government agencies, as well as stop-at-nothing collectors and criminals.

    One Saturday afternoon, I had just about reached the end of all my hopes and dreams. If you’re living in a ritzy house in a million dollar suburb, everyone assumes you have money to burn. California state taxes are among the highest in America. On the other hand, my electricity bill was supposed to be less than the national average – but that wasn’t the case at all. I even took this up with Boss Kent when he was in one if his rare, friendly moods. “God, Manning, your bill is almost three times as high as mine. There must be a leakage somewhere in your house. I’d have it checked out by an expert.” But who can afford an expert?

    One of Kennovarnie’s low-cost programs was a round-up of “exciting” happenings around L.A. Good old Doctor Ainslee Norman, professor of Archaeology at the university, was one of the thrills in store for lucky viewers. Well, I was curious enough to tune in, anyway. Sure enough, there was Doctor Norman confronting viewers with “three priceless figurines that your university was recently bequeathed. Unfortunately, beautiful and beyond rubies and pearls as they are, these priceless gifts to the people of L.A. will deteriorate unless properly housed. The pieces must be kept at a high temperature, and perfectly dry. Your university needs to construct a special room which is not only heated and air-conditioned but totally free from moisture. So, I’m appealing…”

    It didn’t take me ten seconds to realize that I was right all along. Dune-Harrigan’s treasure was no figment of his feverish imagination, no unrealized legend, no El Dorado dream. It existed right here in his house! My house!

    I rushed down to the basement. The sun had almost set and the entry porch was dark and cold. I unlocked the door – and a welcome blast of hot air rushed out at me. As I stepped into the heat of the room, I heard the satisfying click and hum of the air-conditioning unit in the back wall.

    A waist-high, timbered bench ran along all but the entry side of the wall. This bench was supported by panels to the floor. I gave all these panels a good kick with my feet. They seemed solid. But why use expensive paneling to support the bench when a better result could be obtained just with legs of timber?

    It was now almost too dark to see. Oddly, the room seemed to have no artificial means of lighting. I was working in the last of the twilight coming through the door. I would have to act quickly or wait until tomorrow. Seizing a crowbar from an assortment of tools on a table near the door, I attacked the top panel of a bench where the fading light was at its strongest. At first, the wood refused to give, but I kept at it until I heard the welcome sound of wood starting to split and I finally had a hole large enough to insert my arm. My fingers encountered something sharp. But I was now forced to wait until sunrise.

    After a restless night, I was on the job bright and early next morning. This time, I worked my fingers carefully down the hole I’d made in the bench until I reached the sharp splinter. It moved!

    Three hours later, I held in my hand a small but exquisitely carved wooden model of a ship or barque. In perfect condition, the little barque looked as fresh and shiny as when it was first placed in some scribe’s or general’s tomb four thousand years ago. The small figure of the man standing at the prow was itself a masterpiece of miniature artistry. What I had mistaken for a splinter was actually the upright paddle or rudder (more than twice the height of the man) with which the ship was steered.

    Any museum or art gallery in the world would give a
Mona Lisa
in exchange for such a piece. And I had three whole bench-fulls of such treasures! God knows what other wonders good old Dune-Harrigan had squirreled away. He was a connoisseur, a prince of refinement, a gourmet infinitely acquainted with all four corners of perfection.

    Running, shouting through every room in the house, I danced and sang. To hell with parking lots, quiz shows and TV updates, I was through with them all!

    It took me nearly three hours to come to my senses. Suddenly, I felt cold. I was possibly sitting on treasures that would make Midas a pauper, but what good would it do me? How could I sell it? There was a black market, sure. But I had no contacts. Even if I did find a buyer, I’d be lucky to make half a cent in the dollar. It was just like the color-blind house itself, and Dune-Harrigan’s horde of sovereigns. I was sleeping on a fortune, but I couldn’t eat it, drink it, sell it or negotiate it – let alone wave goodbye to Boss Kent and Kenovarnie’s.

    So Monday, I was back at work. And Tuesday. And Wednesday.

    Wednesday night, I was just about to turn off the lights in the living room and make my way to bed, when I was startled by a loud knocking on the front door. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Who on earth would be calling at this unearthly hour? The knocking persisted. Hell, they knew I was home!

    I taped my service pistol to the underside of my desk, put a revolver in my pocket, splashed my face and then opened the door.

    “
Buona notte
, Signor Dune-Harrigan.” A dapper, sharp-faced man, dressed in nifty dark blue overalls, waved a gloved hand towards his cap in friendly salute.  

    I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m not Dune-Harrigan,” I started to explain. But then I caught sight of Joe Darin grinning up at me in the background. As fast as I tried to swing the door closed, Darin darted forward and held a knife at my throat.

    “
Mi scusi
.” The sharp-faced man edged past us. A henchman, startlingly similar in build and coloring to myself, followed. He was even bald in the same patch.

    Darin closed the door.

    Sharp-face was doing all the talking: “
Credo che loro si conoscano gia, non e vero?
” (I believe you already know each other?).

    Still holding the point of his knife to my throat, Darin struck me across the ear, causing my head to jerk sideways and the knife to cut into my skin. “I saved his life once,” Darin remarked in Italian, but I was not about to argue that he did nothing of the sort.

    “Won’t you ask us to sit down?”

    I waved them to chairs, but Darin sat next to me on the sofa. I held a towel to my throat. We conversed in Italian. No fuss. No raised or angry voices. Just four close friends having a quiet evening at home. All very chummy.

   “Permit me to introduce myself,” began Sharp-face, “I am Mr. Julio. You have heard of me?”

   I nodded. The towel around my throat was staining with blood. I pressed the towel closer to my neck. “I’ve seen you hovering around the markets.”

   “I am a businessman.”

   “That’s one word for it,” I hazarded.

    “Specifically, I am a banker.”

    “And I thought you were a used car dealer.”

    Mr. Julio’s gloved hand made an airy gesture. “It is a convenient cover for my real business.”

    “Super-expensive money-lending,” I said. “Usury!”

    Julio raised his gloved finger. “No, I do not like that word,
usuraio
. Banks lend money. Do people call them usurers? Yet, we are both in the same business. Certainly, I charge higher interest, but my risks are greater. Do I have the same collateral as a bank? No! If my customers have secure collateral, they do not borrow from me at all. I provide a service. I fill a need.”

    “Just brimming with idealism,” I murmured.

    Mr. Julio nodded agreeably. “Of course, like any other businessman, I need to protect my interests.”

    “Specifically, that no-one misses a payment on any of their debts.”

    “Exactly!” Julio waved to Darin. “Put that knife away, Darin.”

    “He has a revolver in his pocket.”

    “Well, take it away from him! Must I think of everything? Mr. Manning is not about to give us any trouble. To cut a long story short, Mr. Manning, Peter Faber, alias Peter Tunning, has grand ideas, but niggardly money. On the other hand, he does have connections. Powerful connections. Extremely powerful connections. I must admit, I am really amazed, Mr. Manning. Everyone you can name is frightened of Peter. Really frightened of him!”

    “Except you, Mr. Julio.”

    “You are right. The others all say he has the evil eye! Now I do not believe in such nonsense, Mr. Manning. But I am ordered by his powerful connections to lend him all the money he wants –
my
money – and charge him no more than bank interest! With a ceiling of $200,000, imagine that! Admittedly, he borrows only half that sum, but I am forced to put myself in hock. You will agree with me, Mr. Manning, this whole set-up is absolutely ridiculous!”

    I stood up. “You come here. You frighten me half to death. You stab me in the throat. And now you want me to do you a favor?”

    “If you kindly please. Thanks to Tunning and his powerful connections, I am short of cash. But thanks to the late Professor Dune-Harrigan, we know there is a treasure in this house. But we have not been able to find it. We are hoping you can help us.”

    “And if I refuse?”

    “We are hoping that you will be a lot more co-operative than the late, lamented Professor Dune-Harrigan.”

    “So that’s what happened to him?”

    “An accident! He would not tell us where his treasure is buried, but we know it is somewhere in this house. I even offered to buy this house for cash. Cash down for instant vacant possession. But he refused. But we are hoping that you will be more co-operative and sell this house to us, so that we can take it apart, piece by piece.”

    “I’ll gladly sell you this house!”

    “Excellent!”

    “For the sum you yourself brought to mind: $200,000.”

    “Agreed!”

    “I don’t know why you didn’t make your business plain from the start. I hate this house. I’ll be glad to get rid of it! I’ll write you out a bill of sale right now.”

    I walked over to Dune-Harrigan’s desk. Hopefully, the professor’s own loaded pistol was still sitting at the back of the second drawer.

    It was gone!

    “This what you’re looking for?” asked Mr. Julio, waving Dune-Harrigan’s pistol in the air.

    “How did you manage that?” I asked.

    “Rafael has his uses.” Julio nodded towards the Manning look-alike.

    “As I said, I’m actually looking for a blank bill of sale. Here it is! And an old-fashioned pen and an old-fashioned bottle of ink. Good enough for Dune-Harrigan, and I guess good enough for us. You can fill it in yourself and then I’ll sign it… Damn! Ink has all dried up. Do you have a pen or a biro?”